


Room Service at the Hotel

by theadventuresof



Category: Death Note
Genre: Lawlight Week 2016, M/M, angry blowjob, guess who listened to playing his game about 40000 times while writing this, im bad at tags sorry, lawlight hatesex, light deals with Stirrings, listen im a sucker for role reversal, uni arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:51:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has planned this, he has planned all of this, and he’s kept Light here after the rest of the task force has gone, to try to get a reaction out of him, damn him--</p>
            </blockquote>





	Room Service at the Hotel

Light curses himself.

He has come home late these past two nights, and tonight he will be late again. It hardly matters, he tells himself; he is an adult; he is allowed to share a hotel room with his girlfriend, or whatever it is his family thinks he’s doing. And he wouldn’t do it—not if it wasn’t completely necessary. Nobody really  _ likes _ to lie, do they? Well—not in the sense Light is thinking of. Every fabrication, every tangled wisp of insincerity is like a thread in some greater woven fabric of completeness and that makes it worth it. Still something squirms deep in his ribcage whenever he lies—not that he’d ever let it show on his face—and he must learn to push the discomfort aside.

The hotel part is true, at any rate.

He’s sitting—doubled over, really—in an elegant plum loveseat flanked by twin golden lamps. The table before him is coated in documents, spreadsheets and drafts of letters and scribbled charts and long lists of names in L’s crabbed handwriting. L himself has now stepped behind the wall panel of the recording booth and he peers at Light curiously through the glass. He looks absurd, as he so often does. The reflection of the lamps projects an odd doubled halo onto his head. Light doesn’t mean to meet his eyes, but somehow L’s eyes always find his own.

L turns back to the script in front of him and begins to speak.

“I am Kira,” he says. “The true Kira.”

Light jolts at the words—he knew this was coming, and yet—

“To the one who also claims to be Kira, if you misuse my name again…”

Light doesn’t mean to  _ glare _ but those words are his. Light’s. Kira’s. He wrote them, and he means them. L is just speaking them, and he commands the script with such grace and power that Light forgets that this is the same man who routinely empties jars of marmalade into his coffee and drinks creamer singles straight. He has planned this, he has planned all of this, and he’s kept Light here after the rest of the task force has gone, to try to get a reaction out of him,  _ damn _ him—

“...I will have no choice but to punish you.”

Light’s breath catches in his throat. The hotel suite suddenly feels extraordinarily hot. L isn’t even reading from the script; he’s bitter and cold, spitting the words out one second, then purring dangerously into the microphone the next.

Light steels himself, gathers his senses.  _ I am prepared to do anything it takes to learn his name,  _ he tells himself.  _ I always was. This is just—this is just part of the game. Do not break composure. Do not— _

“Light,” L says, as if the last twenty seconds did not happen. “Bring me your previous draft.”

Some immense invisible switch has been turned off, but Light is still blinded, staggering in the afterglow. He closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind.

“It’s practically the same thing. We cut one line,” he says, pointedly avoiding L’s eyes as he sifts through the papers on the desk and surfaces with the correct one. “The ‘you’re free to kill L’ part.”

L’s profile looks angry. “Bring it to me anyway,” he says. “Let me do it again, properly.”

Light opens the door to the recording booth with some trepidation, and feels his heart jump in his chest when L closes the door behind them both. “Watch me,” L says. “Make sure I stay in character. You understand Kira better than I do.”

_ You—you bastard. _

Light shoves the paper into his hands, shivering as their fingers brush together. “No more pretenses,” he says. “You want me to record this message, don’t you. Tell me the truth, for once.”

“Incorrect,” L says blithely, scratching at his collar. “I fully intend to record it myself.” 

Light  _ hates _ him, hates how he can’t avoid L’s gaze; he hates him and he wants nothing more than to slam him against the door and either tear him limb from limb or—

In the next instant Light realizes with growing horror that he definitely should  _ not _ have met L’s eyes. A hundred images flash through his brain. L’s lips, red and pursed, on the rim of his teacup, barely parted to reveal the slightest glimpse of his tongue—his handshake, his fingers cold and white and careful like carved ivory—the contours of his shoulders and his back showing through his sweater, so that Light could count every vertebra if he wanted to—his black eyes, cold and calculating and clever and fathomless and beautiful  _ (don’t _ says Light’s brain)—the first pair of eyes that has really  _ seen _ Light…

“I am Kira,” L says again, and Light is weak, overly warm, and he can’t quite conceal a sharper than normal exhale. L spares him one glance before continuing. 

“The true Kira. If you misuse my name again, I will have no choice…”

Light knows exactly what is coming and he still shudders as the word  _ punish _ slips from L’s mouth, boiling hot—he hears L perform the rest of the message as if he’s listening to it from the bottom of a well, and by the time  _ you’re free to kill L _ reaches his ears he’s shaking, fists clenched, and L looks at him again with his head tilted to one side and Light wants to  _ pulverize _ that godforsaken smirk—

Light surprises himself.

At once the case is gone and all he knows is pulsing heat and the press of L’s lips on his own—his hands find the sides of L’s face, fingers seething in black hair, and L makes a satisfyingly strangled noise in the back of his throat but recovers quickly.  _ Good. _

They remain positively tangled together for what feels like an impossibly long time, but Light is too dazed with ecstasy to notice...then all at once, L draws back, biting Light’s lower lip nearly hard enough to draw blood, and his hands tug on fistfuls of Light’s hair and it dawns on Light that L knows  _ exactly _ what he is doing, that he has been planning this for as long as Light has.

“Ryu—” he starts, involuntarily. “Ryu—”

Everything is collapsing; he is losing himself alarmingly fast. The case is long gone; the alias dissolves into a pathetic whine and L hums against his jaw, leaving wet kisses on his skin. Light cries out as L bites his neck; he can already imagine the bruises blossoming, bright and red and dangerously vivid...

L draws back abruptly, shoves him against the opposite wall, and Light is left reeling for a moment before he realizes that the door to the hotel suite is opening and someone is coming in. He gasps for breath, straightening his collar, realizing with dawning horror that there is no way to conceal his now-magenta face, his disheveled hair, the bite marks down his jaw.

“Forgot my car keys,” says Matsuda, waving to them both. Blissfully ignorant as usual. “Good luck with the broadcast, you two. See you tomorrow, Ryuzaki.”

L gives an indistinct noncommittal noise as Matsuda turns to leave again, pocketing his keys. As soon as the door closes he’s all over Light again, his fingers roving lower and lower—Light moans, smacks his head against the glass as he leans back—L reaches under his collar, untucking his shirt and crawling his fingers up his pelvis towards his chest.

Light feels somehow as if he’s being manipulated.

There is some sort of absurd comfort in the fact that he might as well manipulate L while they’re both at it. In fact, he’s almost certain that L expects it.  _ I’ll play along, _ Light thinks.  _ I’ll play along until I can’t anymore. _ His head is smarting beautifully from the impact with the glass.

Either way, he has nothing to lose.

“Kira,” Light whispers. “You are... _ nothing… _ compared to me.”

L gives an almost imperceptible nod. Encouraged, Light continues.

“I will find you,” he says, pulls L towards him and kisses him furiously. L moans, his voice shaking in a way that makes spots of pleasure dance in front of Light’s eyes, and his hands, lost for a moment, regain purchase against Light’s shoulders. “I will catch you. You’re  _ mine.” _

L unbuttons Light’s collar. “No one,” he purrs, each word punctuated with a smoldering kiss, “can own God.”

Light fumbles with L’s sweater, pulls the damn thing up above his head, and is momentarily shocked at the paleness of his thin chest. L is bony but he is painfully strong and he tugs Light’s shirt off him completely, pulls his hair and pushes him against the glass wall again, his fingers now working on the button of Light’s trousers. “Mine,” he mumbles again, and without meaning to Light whimpers. L’s hands are cold but his mouth is wonderfully warm and—

_ “Oh,”  _ Light nearly sobs and he’s positively staggering, his knees giving way; L’s mouth is impossibly, scaldingly hot and it’s all Light can do not to climax on the spot, jerk his hips forward and arch his back like they’re executing some twisted dance. He must—regain composure. The game isn’t over; it’s just started.

Ryuk picks the absolute worst time to cackle at them both and Light tenses with L’s mouth on him, momentarily horrified; the shinigami has been comfortably watching the whole spectacle unfold and he pushes the thought from his brain and focuses on the task at hand; he must—

Just then L does something with his tongue that melts Light into a puddle; he sinks down against the wall, scratching at L’s shoulders, down his back—L winces but doesn’t slow down. He places his thumbs in the hollows of Light’s hips, leans closer, before pulling back with an obscenely wet sound. It’s—it’s  _ cold _ without L’s mouth on him, and he tries to push L’s head down again, but L remains unmoved, unblinking, showing barely any signs of exertion save for his heaving chest. 

_ Come on, _ Light thinks through the livid desire searing his brain. An instant later he knows why L has stopped; he knows exactly what L wants from him now.

“You... _ bowed _ to me, Kira,” Light says, and L dips his head in acknowledgement, softly brushing his lips along Light’s pelvis. “You’re  _ ahh— _ you’re weak.”

L looks up at him again and he  _ hates _ that wretched smirk.

“You measure your own power by my supposed weakness,” L says, low and lovely, and Light is pleased to hear a definite tremor of longing in his voice. Even his smirk is beginning to falter. “You are nothing...without me.”

Light shoves his head down again, curls his fingers in L’s hair. 

“And—and when you kill me,” Light says. “Where does that leave you, with nothing to measure yourself against?  _ Ahh _ —it’ll be lonely—by yourself, Kira...you need me as much as I— _ oh _ —nhh—need you…”

L finally undoes his own jeans. Ryuk is crowing somewhere behind them both and Light mentally curses the shinigami for continuing to watch, but it hardly matters because L gives a muffled moan that sends waves of ecstasy crawling up Light’s back.

“Need—closer—come  _ closer,” _ Light barely manages, because his vision is full of stars and his body is disappearing and he knows nothing but blessed incoherence, and every sweet desperate sound he makes drives him farther over the edge; he’s usually quiet, he usually can’t stand the sound of his own voice when he’s out of control like this—why is tonight so  _ different, _ what has L  _ done  _ to him—

“Hold on,” L says and Light moans  _ no _ as L takes his lips off of him again—he pulls him in, hooking his ankles together against L’s back, and runs his hands through L’s hair again, astounded by its softness.

“Hhn— _ Can’t _ , I’m—”

L runs his tongue directly between Light’s thighs, kisses him with more fervor than ever, and Light is gone—

Eloquent, composed, silver-tongued—all of it has vanished—he’s breaking and it’s beautiful; L has shattered him, unraveled him, and his mouth tears itself open in a silent cry as he trembles in a thousand places at once before falling limply against the glass, too weak to raise his head.

L chokes, convulsing, and in his breathless daze Light nearly imagines him toppling over dead but that’s  _ wrong _ ; that’s not part of the game—L surfaces, winded, and Light puts his warm hands on top of L’s cold ones and they stroke together, once—twice—three times—L’s composure is breaking quickly and he whispers something against Light’s sternum in a language Light doesn’t recognize, his breath coming in ragged gasps—then he rakes his fingernails down Light’s chest, and Light watches a shudder travel up his back as he curls in on himself, the inky scrim of his hair obscuring his face as he comes.

For a while it’s all they can do to re-regulate their breathing, and as Light hears Ryuk laughing again the gravity of the situation slams into him nearly palpably, like he’s being swung at with a sack of flour. L is motionless, corpselike save for his quivering damp curls and insufferable smirk, damn that  _ smirk— _

L brushes Light’s own hair out of his eyes with his cleaner hand. “You’re so frustrating.”

He still can’t catch his breath. “...Honored.”

The worst part is, he’s not lying.

It’s all—completely  _ absurd, _ Light thinks. They’re collapsed on each other, half-dressed and filthy, and Light finds himself loath to even allow thoughts of the case to cross his mind. The moment is wonderful and glowing and he intends to bask in it for as long as he can. 

“We’ll have to do that again,” he says, tucking his head into L’s chest.

L half-nods. “You might come even closer to a spoken confession next time,” he murmurs. “Although, judging by the progression of things—”

Without warning, L bites back a curse, leaps up, vaults across the recording booth, and crouches next to his laptop.

“What is it?” Light says from his dazzled stupor. He doesn’t realize it—in fact, the sound hardly registers in his ears at the time—but he is about to hear Ryuk laugh harder than he has ever laughed at L’s next words.

“I forgot to turn it off,” L says. “We recorded the whole thing.”

* * *

“That was a fascinating performance,” Ryuk says, dissolving into hysterical cackling once more. At last, in the safety of the Yagami’s lonely doorstep, Light can finally respond.

“I just gave him what he wanted,” Light says, shivering slightly from the cold. “I’ve been prepared to do this from the beginning. You know that by now.”

“Sure, Light,” Ryuk says, and Light opens the door, ignores the shinigami, and slips out of his shoes on the landing before rejoining his family inside.

**Author's Note:**

> still not over how homoerotic playing his game is. also this was written for lawlight week 2016, I can't remember the exact prompt but I'm a few days late anyway. hope you enjoy


End file.
